


Of James Bond's promising career in espionage

by Equinoxe



Series: I never thought about love when I thought about home [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Equinoxe/pseuds/Equinoxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Orleans wasn’t the best place to be when someone had been plotting something sinister against your country. Bond learnt it the hard way, especially when he was so knackered he left his gun on the coffee table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of James Bond's promising career in espionage

**Author's Note:**

> This week MI6 Cafe's prompt is possession. But well, it turned out to be another self-indulgent piece. Comments and kudos are appreciated. Thanks for reading!

 

.

 

The quiet vibration of the phone in his pocket woke Bond up from his haze. He just got back in London for less than five hours and yet he was here in this pointless MI6 meeting. Life was never easy.

 

He fished his phone out and checked for the text. No one batted an eyelash as they all knew whoever got through the secured line warranted a reason to do so. The message was from Q.

 

_There’s a gun on coffee table. Real one. Should I be worried?_

 

Bond blinked and read the text again, for a few seconds he couldn’t comprehend the message at all, or rather, he didn’t want to. He realised must have given something out when he saw Eve’s raised eyebrows.

 

Bond sighed, life was never easy indeed.

 

.

 

The coffee table was positioned towards the balcony in the living room in their flat. On sunny days, Q or Bond would drag it out to the balcony to sit and do whatever they wanted while enjoying the weather. New Orleans wasn’t the best place to be when someone had been plotting something sinister against your country. Bond learnt it the hard way, especially when he was so knackered he left his gun on the coffee table.

 

He didn’t know what to tell Q.

 

On one hand, he was too tired to make up a plausible story someone as clever as Q would buy, and on the other hand, he was very nervous of what Q would think of him afterwards, whichever story he chose to go with. Last three months with Q as a flatmate went as a breeze; Q never invited anyone home, he kept the flat clean and there had never been a financial glitch.

 

Bond had hoped things could stay like that for a while longer, because God helped him, he was so used to the domesticity and how comfortable everything was he hadn’t even thought of any story to cover his arse.

 

Apprehensive, he opened the door to the flat and walked into his living room. Q was standing in front of the oven cooking something, presumably frozen food. The man met his eyes and Bond felt like he was trapped to the spot.

 

_Why is there a gun on the coffee table? Why do you own a gun? Is it legal? What did you say you do for a living again? W-_

 

“What does it mean when the package says bake at gas 8?”

 

_What?_

 

Bond took a while before he recovered, “I’m sorry, what?”

 

Q pursed his lips. He looked annoyed.

 

“Hello _James_ , nice to have you back on earth _James_ , I asked what does ‘gas 8’ on this thing mean.”

 

“I- I don’t know?” James answered slowly.

 

Q made an irritated sound in his throat and got his phone out googling.

 

.

 

It was baffling, because everything was so, so normal. Q didn’t talk about the gun. It was not like he was avoiding the subject either; it was like he simply couldn’t care to bring it up in conversation. The Beretta was still there, black, deadly, and so very obvious on the lovely coffee table.

 

Q ate his food quietly watching fucking Coronation Street ( _seriously, who watched Coronation Street?_ ). Bond sat on the other side of sofa, nibbling on his cheese like a shy teenage girl on a date.

 

“About that,” Q broke the silence, motioning their coffee table.

 

_So this is it._

 

“Yours?”

 

Bond had been so hyped and exhausted he only nodded. Q nodded back and took another bite of his chicken.

 

“I hope I won’t have to worry about police busting the place?”

 

“It’s legal.” _With a license to kill_ , Bond didn’t say.

 

The younger man made _mhmmm_ noise in acknowledgement. Bond felt something akin to stress creeping up his body and marveled at how easy Q put him into an uneasy situation.

 

When the commercial break came, Q turned to him, suddenly serious.

 

“Can you not forget it on the coffee table next time? I thought I watched too much Breaking Bad I started hallucinating when I saw it this morning.”

 

Bond muttered his apology and got up to grab the gun. He felt like he was starting to breathe again.

 

.

 

It took Bond some weeks to eased back into the routine. The gun didn’t add up to his cover story and he had a suspicion Q knew more than he let on. The man’s silence on the issue unsettled him as much as it gave him a strange comfort. Things hadn’t changed between them, but one could never be too careful.

 

Fall approached them fast and soon enough the incidence was just another story in their lives, like how Q couldn’t sleep after one traumatising Game of Thrones episode, or how they attempted to bake cookies one Saturday and ended up eating half of the dough.

 

Bond smiled to himself, home was beginning to feel _a lot_ like home. He felt like there was a place that was his, a place he would come back to, a place where he would eat, sleep, relax, and _live_.

 

His phone chimed as there was an incoming message. Oh how much he hated his job right now. God, he was getting soft.

 

The message read:

 

_I found a CLASSIFIED folder on sofa. You’re lucky I’m a good guy._

 

Bond groaned, another text arrived.

 

_Didn’t touch it though._

 

He was so ready to bang his head to his car’s steering wheel and drive down the Thames.

 

(He didn’t, _his_ flatmate was brilliant, and he was so, so lucky.)

 


End file.
